In my garden the shrubs are parched because Quinty’s search for someone to tend them is half-hearted due to his desire to save money, even though the money’s mine. The tourists upbraid me and sometimes become angry, a withered petal rubbed between finger and thumb, the shreds accusingly held out. The Germans shake their heads in disapproval, the French say it’s typical, the English get the hose going and water the azalea urns. I explain to them that all this, too, is how things are. They politely listen, but afterwards they frown and mutter.
Perhaps I’ll become old, perhaps not. Perhaps something else will happen in my life, but I doubt it. When the season’s over I walk among the shrubs myself, making the most of the colours while they last and the fountain while it flows.
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright Page
Two Lives: Reading Turgenev and My House in Umbria
Reading Turgenev
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
My House in Umbria
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright Page
Two Lives: Reading Turgenev and My House in Umbria
Reading Turgenev
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
My House in Umbria
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14